Have you noticed how we yearn for the aromas and tastes of childhood meals the minute we leave our childhood home? There was nothing, we believe, that quite measured up to the curry that was served there: Thick, filled with meat or vegetables or meat and vegetables. The best of cooks can spend the entire day slaving over a stove, trying to get that consistency and colour and taste — but they’re not going to be able to do it.
Only Mother could.
And while we may imagine that we were always appreciative of Mother’s efforts, I know for a fact that I would often pretend that there was too much chili in the curry and wind up slurping up a plate of rice and milk and sugar while the others tucked into that impossible-to-replicate curry!
Our childhood home always had a laden table — which was emptied out at top speed. Four times a day, we were sure that we would be treated to all kinds of delicacies, both savoury and sweet. Yes, ‘tea’ was a complete meal too — but somehow, we managed to work it all off and be ready for dinner when the gong sounded.
Mother was not the only one involved in this nurturing of our palates and OUR paunches. Father was, if anything, more of the culprit, since he was the one who liked to look at that groaning table and us grinning children ...
Also, he had a mini-poultry farm in the garden sheds, from where we got a never-ending supply of eggs, chicken, duck, even goose and turkey. What more could we ask for?
Obviously, there was no portion control — ever — in our home. Mother didn’t take out a small amount of food into the serving dishes in the hope that we would think that was all that was cooked — and limit ourselves. She just piled it on: And we scoffed it up.
And, ever after, we imagined that that was how it was done. We went into the world and into our own homes with a skewed sense of how much to cook and how much to serve when we prepared meals — and when we entertained guests, there was always enough for at least three times the number of people we invited.
Post the party, after spending a couple of hours putting away leftovers, we would resolve to take lessons from our wiser friends who somehow knew how to cater for just enough for the group they hosted to a meal. We listened carefully as they shared little secrets about how they made their estimates. We even wrote it down. But when we cooked for a party the next time, we ignored all those secrets and estimates and our jottings and we reverted to type. And the table overflowed once again.
The art of portion control is an important one for chefs, I now know. Among the many things they learn and excel in is just how much is required for one person to feel “just right”. Think of all those gourmet restaurants or the caterers who arrange meals for hundreds of guests at weddings and other occasions. They don’t have huge vats of food. They don’t have deep ladles. They don’t pile up plates until you can’t see over a mountain of food. But everyone gets enough. And everyone is happy.
But, with the Indian government’s plans now afoot for portion-control to prevent wastage and promote good health, will we be as happy when we go out for a treat at a restaurant or “thali” place that promises unlimited food? Or will we get as nostalgic for the quantities we saw around us in our youth as we do for the tastes of the food of our childhood home?
Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.
